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*
It wasn’t supposed to have been anything more than a silly crush. A passing fancy, really. When you lived in a house made up of two other right-wingers, sticking with the only other left ideology just made the most sense, Ancom supposes. Even if said extremist was a soul-crushing, rebellion-flattening authoritarian.
Qui was fated to loathe and want him both.
Ancom only wishes qui had enough wherewithal to squeeze the attraction out of quem as quickly as Commie tramples over quis anarcho-utopian idealism in his stupid black boots. And his stupid furry hat. And his fucking stupid half-buttoned coat that frames the toned muscle of his—
Pull yourself together, qui thinks, inhaling sharply through quis nose.
“It’s only been thirty minutes, Anarkiddie,” comes a deep, accented voice somewhere to the left of Ancom. “This surely cannot be that boring to you.” Ancom whips quis head toward the source, flushing pink with embarrassment.
Commie stands as self-composed as ever, tilting his head at quem, hands full of rolled up maps instead of his usual Marxist theory. It’s clear that he’d just spent however many minutes long lecturing Ancom on—what the fuck was it, the geography of Communist populism?—before realizing qui was barely following along. The only sign of any irritation present on his face is his single raised brow, begging an answer.
“I think you really overestimate your teaching ability,” Ancom responds hotly, meeting Commie’s eyes. Mistake. You could drown in that kind of red, Ancom thinks. You’d drown and you wouldn’t even realize you’d lost the individual to the collective.
Commie’s scarlet gaze narrows at quem. Setting his maps against the wall, he begins pacing.
“Anarkiddie. I give you lessons so that you may be better prepared when organizing. Is… precursor to action. To help the minorities, да?” His voice is deceptively calm.
Ancom scoffs, tracking his movement. “Really, Tankie, is that what you’re peddling now? I’m just your audience. Sometimes I don’t even know if you’re lying to me or lying to yourself when you say shit like that, but I can tell you now—I’m not as stupid as you treat me.”
Commie stares at quem, stone-faced. Tightens his strong-cut jaw and straightens his already ramrod back. It makes Ancom want to arch.
The air around them is thick with hostility.
“I see I’ve failed somewhere,” he mutters, stalking slowly toward quem. Sizing quem up.
“So now you’ve noticed,” Ancom replies drolly. “What was it? Realized that a totalitarian state is doomed to be unsuccessful? That maybe Stalin wasn’t the greatest guy you pretend he was? Oh, I know! That all your precious theory is complete bullshit without any praxis to support—”
Qui is cut-off by a swift, red arm.
“I failed—” Commie clutches quis hair with one strong hand, dragging quem up to quis feet. A strangled noise slips out of quis mouth unbidden, and Commie faintly smiles. “—in teaching you to respect your elders.”
Ancom totters forward, balance held firmly in Commie’s grip. Qui feels warm throughout quis body, a thrum humming feverishly in quis veins. It’s almost better than a ketamine drip, but qui still feels the need to spit back something venomous. “If you think I’ll ever listen to the shit you statists say —”
“Look at me when you talk, Anarkiddie,” Commie pierces, interrupting quem. Nearly immediately, Ancom raises quis head. Qui can’t stand the way Commie’s gaze arrests quem, locks quem in place like a good little anarchist. Qui hates even more that qui is listening.
“котенок. So you can follow directions.” His voice is lower, his cold stare just a bit softer.
Ancom feels like a deer in headlights; the longer qui stands there, swaying under Commie’s hand and gazing at him, the more qui feels like qui would do anything he’d order. Qui feels too warm, too pliable. God damn it, Ancom, pull yourself together!
It seems that Commie’s realized the same thing.
The pressure against Ancom’s head releases. If qui were normal, qui would scramble back and bolt through the door. But qui’s heart is pumping raw vitality through quem and qui feels alive as Commie’s arm returns to his side.
Tell me what to do.
Commie looks nigh-inscrutable like always, but qui could swear that he was contemplating something, too involved in his mind to notice that Ancom is still standing in front of him until his eyes flit up and he startles uncharacteristically.
“You—ah…” Commie suppresses a cough, shuttering his expression. “You can—leave, Ancom. It is obvious that we will have no lesson today.” He nods toward the door. There’s an entirely too-long silence that follows as they both breathe.
Distantly, across the house, Ancom can hear Nazi scream out racial slurs, no doubt losing in one of his shitty first-person shooters. It’d probably do quem good to beat the shit out of him a little bit, at the very least to get some of quis adrenaline out.
“…Yeah. Yeah. Okay.”
As Ancom treads toward the door, qui hears a chair shift. Looking back, qui sneaks a glance at Commie easing into his seat, lost in thought once again, hand flexing against his side. Qui suppresses a wistful kind of emotion from spreading across quis face.
Ancom doesn’t bother saying goodbye.
*
It takes about two weeks, in fact, for Commie to approach Ancom again.
Two unbearable fucking weeks that Ancom has spent furiously poring over every single detail of their last close encounter. How hard was Commie gripping quis hair? Qui doesn’t know, but even after bashing Nazi’s shoulders in with quis baseball bat and nursing quis victory in quis depression-heavy room that night, Ancom still felt tender-headed.
It’s been a fruitless effort on qui’s part to induce the same sensation in quemself within the comfort of quem’s bed, hand snaking down the band of quis jeans in the early hours of every night since imagining what could’ve happened in that little room. What Ancom would’ve allowed to be done to quem, theory or praxis be damned.
Did Commie like it rough and fast? If he hadn’t come to his senses, would he have shoved quem against the desk and taken quem right there? Or would he tighten his hand and force quem on quis knees and really shut quem up? Ancom moans against quis pillow, pulling at quis locks as qui wraps quis free hand around quemself.
Commie looks like he’d be big everywhere. He wore big boots, had big hands. He probably had a big… ugh, Christ.
Ancom thinks it’d hurt. Qui thinks quis jaws would ache and quis eyes would bead up and that Commie—Commie might wipe the tears away. Qui knows he could be gentle when he wanted to be, but qui doesn’t think that would stack against rutting himself against quis mouth. Qui doesn’t know if qui would even want Commie to be gentle—at any rate, qui could take him.
A ruthless authoritarian. That’s what he was. No amount of sheep’s clothing could ever change the eyes or hands of a wolf, Ancom knows.
And still—still…
“So you can follow directions.” His tone is quieter, his cold stare just a bit softer.
A too quiet voice, a too soft look. It didn’t belong on him, especially not when dealing with quis childish irascibility. Why? Why?
“Oh, fuck,” Ancom whines, squeezing quis eyes shut as pleasure mounted. Qui moves the hand tugging harshly at quis hair to wrap around quis throat, pressing against quis windpipe. It cuts off quis moans into something like wheezes, quiet enough that nobody would’ve been able to hear Ancom gasp out Commie’s name as qui came.
There is no evidence left afterwards of Ancom’s indulgement as qui cleans quemself up and drifts to sleep. No bruise against qui’s sternum, no lingering ache against quis head. Ancom tries not to feel the dull blow of disappointment, and resolves to use the biggest toy qui had tomorrow.
Besides Ancom’s nightly habits taking a turn for the more lascivious, not much had changed in the household save for the new, stilted way Commie talked to quem during mealtimes, and always in the company of the other extremists. He was avoiding quem nearly every way he could.
It was obvious, and—and. Well, God damn it, it stung.
Ancom thanked the little miracles that Nazi was too self-absorbed not to notice the change in energy lately, but cursed that the same couldn’t have been said for Ancap, who seemed to watch their strained interactions play out with barely-contained fascination.
"Sulking today, I see," drawls a haughty voice from behind where Ancom's been stress-smoking a poorly-rolled joint. Oh, joy. Speak of the devil, and whatever else bullshit came after that.
“A penny for your thoughts?” Ancap sidles up to Ancom’s side of the couch before bursting into laughter. “Ha! Sorry. As if I’d ever give you any of my money.” Ancom rolls quis eyes as qui scoots over to make room for the flamboyantly-dressed capitalist, accidentally ashing quis blunt on one of the cushions in the process.
“What do you even want? I’m not buying sheets right now, I still have a couple strips left.”
“Oh, don’t be so glum,” Ancap takes on a mockingly sad expression before brightening. “I'm not here for that. I just wanted to know… did you two finally fuck? You and Commie?”
Ancom sputters. “Wh—what? Ancap, the fuck?”
Ancap holds his hands up placatingly. “Hey, I’m a friend. Sometimes us anarchists like a bit of statist scum to spice up a night, who am I to judge?” Crossing his legs and adjusting his sunglasses, he wheedles in even closer, “it explains how fucking awful the food has been lately. You must not’ve been very good.”
Qui blinks. “I… hadn’t noticed anything different. But I—“ Ancom remembers Ancap’s previous assertion. “—no, Ancap, what the fuck? I didn’t fuck Tankie!”
You wish you did, the traitorous voice in Ancom’s head interjects. You wish he bent you over that desk and—qui staunchly ignores it and wills quis ears not to burn. “I didn’t fuck him,” qui weakly repeats.
“…Hm.” It’s hard to read Ancap through his sunglasses, but Ancom would guess that he wasn’t expecting a negative. “I suppose that changes things. I was going to suggest you fuck him again and do it right this time, because I cannot keep eating this slop.”
“It’s not that bad,” qui mumbles. Ancap merely raises an eyebrow.
“Yeah, I’m not sure I trust your opinion on this with the unrefined palate you have. No offense.”
“Whatever.”
Ancap stretches languidly, one hand propping his head up, the other pulling down his sunglasses to look directly at Ancom with his odd, snake-like pupils. “So-o-o,” he continues. “You aren’t fucking him. There’s a solution there, too.”
Qui stares at him blankly.
“…You could start fu—”
“Do you need anything else? I really don’t feel like talking to you.” Ancom interrupts.
“I’m just saying! Commie’s… down, and I feel like you have something to do with it. And when that stupid communist is upset, he makes shit food.” Ancap shrugs nonchalantly. “So, really, this is all your fault. Fix it somehow.”
“Why don’t you do anything about it if you’re so concerned?” Ancom crosses quis arms petulantly. Ancap grimaces.
“Ugh, and risk Marxist cooties? No thank you. Besides, you look like you’re close to imploding already, so just do it around him.” Ancap seems to have reached his limit of libertarian chit-chatting, because he stretches once more before rising to his skinny feet and dusting off the elbows of his suit. “The food won’t be the only thing you’ll have to worry about if nothing gets done. What would happen if our dear Nazi caught wind of this… split?”
Qui blanches. “You wouldn’t. He’d never leave me alone.”
Ancap grins.
“Lucky for you that I can be bought. You know my price. Fix this.” With another smile and a flourishing little wave, Ancap strolls out of the living room, leaving Ancom to stew in quis thoughts.
Fix this? Fix fucking what? How the hell was Ancom supposed to breach nearly two weeks of Cold War silence? He didn’t want to talk to quem. That much was clear. Why else would he give such short, clipped answers during dinner? Why else wouldn’t he meet Ancom’s gaze?
Just start fucking him. Sure. Ha ha. Wouldn’t that be something. Hey Tankie, I know you’ve been avoiding me for the past two weeks because you probably hate me and I kind of hate you too, but I just wanted to let you know I’ve been jacking off to you choking me out almost every night since our fight. Come over to my room? I’ll even call you ‘sir.’
Yeah, that was bound to go over well.
“God, fuck this place,” Ancom mutters, stabbing quis blunt out before getting up and heading to quis room, hands balled into fists. “I need a fuckin’ tab.” Qui would not be confronting shit today.
*
Ancom wakes up the next day bright and early at four in the afternoon. Hindsight was certainly twenty-twenty; qui forgot just how long an acid high lasted and spent most of the night clutching at quis pillow and cursing at the fact Commie’s absence from quis daily routine was affecting quem at such a capacity. The popcorn ceiling shifting from fractals to paisley did little to assuage quem.
When did you start relying on the statist this much?
Groaning against quis bedpost and wiping quis eyes, Ancom barely registers the faint knock at the door.
“Go away,” qui says, mustering enough energy to project quis voice across the room. Silence. The pause is long enough for Ancom to remember that the only extremist who ever had the politeness to knock was—
Fuuuuck. Ancom scrubs a hand over quis eyes. Qui can’t do this right now.
“Anarkiddie. You missed breakfast. And lunch.” Commie’s deep voice pierces through the cheap wooden door. Another pause. “The rightists are away from the house. Are you okay?” This is the most he’s spoken to quem since the incident, as qui has taken to calling it.
Ancom says nothing, but qui can still feel Commie hovering outside the door. For some reason, this is the lit match that lights Ancom’s molotov.
In one swift motion, qui strides toward the door, roughly pulling it open. Qui sees Commie stumble back for a split-second before regaining his composure. It makes quem even angrier.
“Talking to me now?” Ancom hisses in his face. “Gee, thanks for reminding me that I missed lunch, I just don’t know what I’d do without you!” Qui know qui is going directly against Ancap’s request for peace, but Commie’s presence is throwing gasoline on Ancom’s fire and qui has been itching for a riot.
Commie only blinks, brows knitting incredulously, clasping his hands behind his back. “I was merely worried for your hea—“
“That’s fucking great, Tankie!” Ancom spits. “Looks like you don’t have to worry anymore! I’m fantastic!” Qui wishes qui was petty enough to start hurling furniture at the communist, but qui didn’t want to give anyone enough ammo to send quem to the psych ward. Looks like qui would have to settle for slamming the door in Commie’s face.
“Now if you’ll fucking excuse me—”
In a flash, and much faster than Ancom would’ve given Commie credit for, he blocks the closing door with his foot. Ancom stares up at him with a mixture of quizzicality and resentment. Commie purses his lips.
“Yeah? Anything you wanna say?” Qui really doesn’t have time for this shit. Qui just needs Commie to fucking leave so that qui can get back to more important things, like screaming into quis pillow and finding new batteries for quis vibrator.
“You are—angry.”
“What an Einstein.”
Ancom watches the way Commie’s jaw works, tension bleeding through. “I do not know why.”
“Wow, two facts in one day,” Ancom sneers. “Maybe if you incorporated more of those in your propaganda, you’d get somewhere.”
It’s a low blow; the whole conversation thus far has been a series of low blows to Commie, Ancom knows. Qui doesn’t even know why qui is doing it, but then Commie’s nose flares and his frown deepens and his eyes go glacial and oh, yeah, that’s why. There’s that electric feeling in quis veins again.
“I… am trying … to be understanding,” Commie grits out, wrenching the door fully open again. It makes Ancom feel somewhat exposed. “But you are making it very difficult.”
Qui crosses quis arms. “I’m making it difficult? Last I checked, I wasn’t radio-fucking-silent for the last two weeks. Thanks for that, by the way.” Ancom wants to slap the puzzled look off of Commie’s face.
“I did not know you noticed that.” His brows are still furrowed and his lips are still pulled in a frown, but he’s less icy than before. “I was... I needed to process things.” Commie breaks his gaze with Ancom on the last sentence.
Qui laughs a curdling, shrieking laugh. “Needed to process things. Nice. So now what? Going to give me lessons again?” Commie opens his mouth to speak, but Ancom steamrolls over him. “I just hope you can control yourself, sir. My head ached for a while afterwards. But you didn’t know that, did you?”
Commie’s face contorts into something incomprehensible as he takes a step forward. Ancom takes a step back, still running quis mouth.
“No, you don’t know shit. It hurt. It hurt for days. But you know what? I think I know why you avoided me all this time.” Every step back qui takes, Commie steps forward. The door swings shut on its own.
Ancom feels almost rabid, eyes bright, body tensed with energy. “I think you liked it. You liked how fucking strong it made you feel, because I know you, Tankie. You’re a dictator with a power fetish who’ll look for any excuse to—“
Whatever Ancom was going to say, qui doesn’t get to finish it, because Commie crushes quem in a bruising kiss, tangling his hand in quis hair close to the nape of quis neck in a rough guide. Their teeth click against each other as Commie forces quis mouth open, probing his tongue against quem. Ancom shudders, bringing quis hands up to grip his coat, eyes sliding shut.
They’re both breathless when they pull away for air. Qui still has quis hands balled up in the fabric of Commie’s coat. Commie takes the time to scan quis half-lidded eyes before he grabs quis jaw and turns it to another angle, prying quis mouth open again. Ancom lets out a small moan that gets swallowed in the swipe of Commie’s tongue.
Qui feels like quis drowning in him, not even noticing when they made the shift from standing to sitting, Ancom straddling Commie’s lap. The stiff fabric digs into the flesh of Ancom’s thighs. Qui probably shouldn’t have worn a skirt today.
His voice is hot against the shell of Ancom’s ear: “You are right, Ancom,” he murmurs. “I liked it.”
His hand creeps up quis back, twirling his fingers around quis hair before jerking quis head down, exposing quis neck as Ancom’s breath hitches and quis eyes roll back. “But I know you liked it too.”
Commie’s lips travel down to quis jugular, scraping his teeth against delicate skin. He kisses the blooming mark softly. “котенок, you will listen to me now, yes?” Ancom whimpers, rocking against Commie’s leg, shuddering at the friction.
The authoritarian grunts, dropping his hand from Ancom’s hair to push quem up further against him, skimming his broad palms against the curve of quis ass. Ancom drops quis head immediately against Commie’s coat, wrapping quis arms around his neck. The loose strap of his ushanka brushes against quem every once in awhile. He’s so warm. It should be a crime to be this warm, qui thinks.
“милый котенок,” he says, voice like crushed velvet. Ancom has no idea what he keeps calling quem, but it sounds like approval, and approval sounds heavenly right now. “Get on your knees.”
Oh, yes. Yes, this was good. Ancom slides off Commie’s lap fluidly, sinking down to the floor. Qui feels so punch-drunk that qui almost continues quis unquestioning obedience until qui remembers who qui is. And who qui is with. Sat firmly in-between Commie’s knees, Ancom opens quis mouth, foot-first:
“I never said I’d listen to you,” qui mutters. “You always think I’ll listen to you. What’s to stop me from punching you in the dick and running?” Funny that without Commie’s hands on quem, qui’s mind at once felt a lot clearer.
Commie’s gaze shifts from pleased to poisonous. “Anarchist brat.” He brings his hand up to seize Ancom’s jaw, forcing quem to look him straight in the eyes once more. There's an animal wolfishness shining through his otherwise guarded gaze that makes quis legs feel like jelly. Ancom is suddenly glad qui isn't standing anymore when qui melts into his grip. “You will obey your betters. You will be useful.” He smiles, half-cruel and half-endearing. “If you are good, I reward you. Understood?”
Ancom nods jerkily.
“Use your words.”
“Y-yes. Sir.”
When he releases quem, he gestures toward himself. “Get to work.”
Ancom shuffles forward a few more inches until qui is nearly sandwiched between Commie’s thighs. This was—despite everything, this was uncharted territory between qui and Commie. But what was a little blowjob between embittered ideologies? Isn’t this what qui wanted? What qui had fantasized about for so many nights?
Commie’s raised brow spurs Ancom on to fiddle with the zipper of his trousers, pulling at the metal tab. The green hue of Ancom’s room combined with the dark fabric of the pants made it difficult to see what qui was doing, but qui could definitely feel it. Jesus Christ.
“Are you a fucking horse?” Ancom blurts without thinking, pulling the zipper down all the way. Commie snorts.
“Am average working proletariat,” he deadpans, looking down at quem. He grunts as qui coaxes him, half-hard, out of his boxers and trousers with a slim hand.
“You don’t feel average,” qui mutters, pumping him a few times. Commie’s cock twitches slightly—while Ancom knows Commie is loath to express emotions in general, qui would guess that he’d be preening.
God, men and their egos.
Qui had dreamt of being in this position, but faced with the daunting task that was Commie’s… substantial endowment, Ancom was suddenly a lot less sure that qui wouldn’t choke at the task. Literally. Christ on the cross, he wasn’t even fully hard yet. Ancom thinks qui might come just from being on quis knees.
When qui eventually glances up, Commie is staring at quem expectantly. Had he been looking this whole time? Fuck, why did he look so impassive?
“It will not bite.” Commie supplies helpfully.
Fighting the immediate urge to snark back, Ancom gingerly grasps the base of Commie’s cock, palming the soft skin, hovering quis mouth near his beaded tip.
And licks.
“Good kitty,” he hums. Qui flushes, the praise going straight to quis abdomen. More of that. Do more of that.
Come on, it wasn’t like qui had never sucked a dick before. Qui knew what to do. The fact that it was Commie changed nothing, even if he was hung like a fucking elephant.
When Ancom slides him into quis mouth, they both groan. Ancom struggles to adjust to the warm, foreign feeling in quis mouth, but valiantly continues on. There’s a marked difficulty trying to take more of him in besides little more than the tip—he’s just so big.
Commie’s hand slides into Ancom’s hair again, gently tangling in quis locks. The sensation is almost familiar at this point. An encouragement.
Let it be known that Ancom did not know when to quit. While qui was sure qui could have comfortably held Commie’s tip in quis mouth until Christ knew when, qui had something to prove and a job to finish. Steeling quemself, qui presses forward.
Commie grunts, and the pressure against quis head grows ever-so-slightly. It’s a slow process, trying to suck his dick. It takes everything within Ancom to let quis mouth go slack and slide quis tongue against the warm weight of Commie, but it’s working—qui has almost half of him in.
He's been absent-mindedly petting quem the entire time, muttering Russian endearments here and there every time Ancom’s successfully inched forward, mouth stretched so full that tears prick at the corner of quis eyes.
Ancom’s so fucking hard right now, quis free hand drifts underneath quis skirt.
And then—
“No,” Commie murmurs, devastatingly gentle as his fingers abruptly tense against Ancom’s scalp, pain-pleasure jolting through quem. Qui moans around Commie’s cock, instantly removing quis hand. “You must wait to be rewarded, котенок. You will be good.”
Through the haze of lust, Ancom thinks that qui should just bite down. That would fucking show him. Fuck the statist and his awful rules and the hand in quis hair softly petting quem again and the way it makes qui shift even more forward to finish what qui started, taking him in until qui—
Ancom pulls away suddenly, coughing, saliva trailing past quis ruddy lips. Commie looks unsurprised.
“Fuck,” qui croaks. Qui forgot about the gag reflex. Commie’s spit-soaked cock hangs heavy between them, flushed with pink. God damn it, qui forgot about the gag reflex. It usually wasn’t even an issue.
What was an issue, though, was how empty Ancom now felt without the warm weight of Commie pressed taut against quis tongue.
“Problem?”
Qui shoots a glare at him.
“I can help.” At this, Commie’s lax hold against Ancom’s hair tightens, easily guiding quem back to his cock. Ancom’s eyes flutter, lolling quis mouth open once again to slide against Commie. Qui lets him push quem even farther down, only focusing on relaxing quis mouth and throat as Commie softly face-fucks quem.
When the thick head of him hits the back of quis throat, Ancom coughs again, squeezing quis eyes shut, but this time Commie holds quem still.
It subsides after a few moments until Ancom opens quis eyes again, nose flaring in breaths. Spit trails down quis chin in a degrading display.
“See? You can do it.” Commie wipes the stray tears away from Ancom’s eyes, and continues guiding quis head down.
It’s wonderful, horrible, completely addling—Ancom’s throat feels so chubby with cock that qui thinks qui is gonna need a cough drop afterwards—but the sensation is like nothing else. Commie only guides quem a little farther down before he stops, satisfied at what Ancom was able to take.
His point made, Commie starts to tug quem off but stops at Ancom’s noise of insistence, a buzz around his length that makes him shut his eyes for a moment. The anarchist glares at him before hollowing quis cheeks.
“Mm,” Commie groans. Ancom thinks he gets the point, because he doesn’t try moving quem off him again for the moment. He’s breathing a little heavier than before, letting his cock warm in the curve of Ancom’s throat. “Ты выглядишь красиво, как это. If I knew you would comply with the state like this, I would have done this years ago.” Ancom only responds by blinking at him. He chuckles.
“I know that you would like to stay there. But maybe another time, дорогая. You've been good.”
Ancom thinks this might be a running theme with Commie, speaking so softly to quem but then brutally manhandling quem like qui was nothing. And vice versa. What did it say about quem that qui was fine with it? Commie drags Ancom off his weeping cock in an effortless motion, jerking quem up and toward where he sat on the bed, pulling quem in for a filthy kiss. His hand snakes its way underneath quis skirt as they meld, fingers brushing along the band of quis panties.
“Take off your skirt,” he rumbles, in-between qui nipping at his lips.
“Take off that fucking hat, sir,” Ancom responds hoarsely, shimmying out of quis pleated skirt before pawing at Commie’s ushanka. With a scoff, he acquiesces, losing his coat and turtleneck along the way. No sooner than most of their clothes are off, Commie is pushed back on the bed, leaning his frame against the headboard.
Ancom straddles him once again, running quis hands along every inch of skin qui hasn’t seen before, ravenous and wild. Commie kisses quem again just to get quis attention, relishing the soft whimper qui gives into his mouth as his cock rests against the curve of Ancom’s ass.
“Lube is o-on the table,” qui chokes out when they pull apart. “Get it.”
Commie raises an unimpressed brow at quem.
Fucking hell. “Please.”
“That’s better.”
There’s a minute hesitation when Commie leans over toward Ancom’s bedside table. Qui feels like qui knows what he’s thinking—probably something along the lines of Anarkiddie, do you really just keep this next to you? But he grabs the small bottle easily enough, handing it over to Ancom. Popping the cap, qui pours a hefty dollop on quis palm, smearing it all over Commie’s length. With a low whine, Ancom slips two digits inside quem, hurriedly prepping quemself.
Commie’s gone silent once more, and when Ancom looks up, he’s just staring at quem again. Jesus, what was it with this guy? Ancom’s been doing all the fucking legwork so far, and here he was, sat back with his perfectly sculpted chest, grazing his eyes all over quem in a modicum of approval. His short, chopped hair sticks up in a couple places from removing his ushanka, making him look just a little more ruffled for wear. It makes Ancom want to stick quis tongue in his mouth.
As Ancom aligns quemself with Commie’s blunt tip, Commie decides to open his stupid fucking mouth again.
“Are you sure you do not need anymore… ah, preparation?” Ancom doesn’t know whether qui should scream at him or keep quis mouth shut. This is the authoritarian who just choked quem on his cock, and now he’s concerned? If there were any extremist with the weirdest fucking morals, Commie would be the one.
“I’ve had bigger,” Ancom lies. Wow, lying feels great. Especially when Commie is too slow to mask the jealousy on his face.
With an appropriate amount of bitterness re-instilled in the atmosphere, Ancom sinks down slowly, lips falling open in a silent sound of pleasure as quis hands lay flat against Commie’s chest for stability. Oh, God, this was an Eden that Ancom severely missed; there was no dildo qui owned that compared to the stretch that Commie gave quem, warmness pulsing inside inch-by-inch.
The statist moans lowly, hands grasping quis waist in a bruising clutch. He doesn’t wait for quem to adjust, opting instead to force quem down all the way. Ancom chokes on quis breath. “F—oh, fuck, you bastard,” rushes out of quis mouth, consonants and syllables stumbling over each other.
He smiles coldly, breathing slightly more ragged. “I thought you had bigger, котенок.”
Commie twitches inside quem, and Ancom feels so hot and full that qui can’t find the words to respond. Trembling with a horrible, perverted energy, qui grinds down, clawing quis nails down Commie’s chest.
He swears loudly, bucking up automatically. It’s Ancom’s turn to smile now, even as qui moans at the sensation. He’s heaving now, composure undone, and his eyes are unnaturally stormy when one hand leaves its crushing purchase on quis waist to wrap around quis throat.
“Fucking brat,” Commie snarls, and qui is suddenly knocked on quis back, head near the foot of the bed, rapidly losing air as he roughly drives into quem. “You anarchists have no respect. You must be trained to listen—is that it? Do you want me to fuck the fight out of you?” And oh, if Commie's crudeness isn't just music to Ancom's ears, expletives surging from him like a levee broken, finally, truly succumbing to Ancom's deviance.
Ancom wheezes out a pleasured sigh, olive eyes half-lidded, vision blurry and uncoordinated.
“Answer me,” he says. It’s an order, not a request.
“Yes,” qui rasps out in a mess of syllables. Commie’s hold on quis throat loosens slightly, and the anarchist greedily gulps in more air. Qui feels—intoxicated. Surrounded by, filled by, held down by Commie. Getting fucked within an inch of quis life, there are no thoughts in quis head other than yes, yes, please. Ancom wraps quis legs around his waist just as qui wraps a hand around quemself.
“Good kitty,” he growls. Ancom thinks qui is going to be quite sore in the days coming, but qui can't find it within quemself to care.
Qui can barely see what’s in front of quem anymore, curly hair flopping against quis eyes with every thrust. It's all a blurred, shadowed mess of scarlet.
At some point, Commie brushes against a spot that makes Ancom see stars. “Please,” qui keens, completely wanton. Commie grunts, grasping one of quis legs free and holding it at an angle to press deeper into quem. Deeper, harder—Ancom wouldn’t have thought it possible at this point, but quis moans are stuttering from the force of it.
And then—
“I can’t see you,” Commie mutters, strained. In a fluid action, he releases his hold on Ancom’s throat to tenderly sweep Ancom’s hair out of quis eyes. Ancom sees the ice melting from Commie’s red pupils at the same qui takes a breath of uninhibited, delicious oxygen.
It’s a little too compassionate for quem to handle.
“Commie,” Ancom whimpers, baring quis throat, “I—I need—please—“ Qui breaks off into garbles as Commie replaces quis hand around quemself with his own, tugging at quem. Ancom pulls Commie down for a kiss, licking into his mouth. It’s dirty, but it’s sweet, and neither of their teeth clack this time.
The tight coil in Ancom’s abdomen unfurls rapidly, and then blooms. Qui comes, sobbing ecstasy into Commie’s mouth. The statist groans as Ancom clenches around him even tighter, bowing his head. He continues to fuck quem into overstimulation, far past quis point of coherency until a low rumble sounds within his chest.
“Ancom,” he grits out in a warning, voice like gravel. “I’m—“
“I—inside. Inside, please, Commie,” qui babbles, crossing quis legs around him in a last-ditch effort to keep him firmly seated inside quem. He swears a litany of curses in Russian as his hips snap and stutter, and Ancom moans at the sensation of Commie’s climax filling quem, hot ropes painting quis insides.
They take a minute to breathe, chests rising and falling in tandem.
When Commie moves to pull out with an unrefined grunt of exertion, Ancom makes a noise of dissent as quis legs flex around him to stay in place. He quirks a brow at quem.
“Really?”
Ancom shrugs, giving him a tired smile. “I like the feeling.” Commie says nothing, but seems to file the information down for later.
He’s at least kind enough to let quem bask for a minute or two more before he removes himself from Ancom completely, grabbing a paper towel to wipe himself off before tucking himself back into his worker’s trousers and putting his turtleneck and coat back on. Commie works with speedy efficiency, getting up and inspecting Ancom’s room for a clean rag to run under water before returning—it must not have been easy. Ancom knew qui lived like shit.
“You don’t have to do this,” qui mutters as Commie cleans the mess on quem. He only briefly meets quis eyes before going back to his task.
“I wanted to,” he says, straightening after he’s finished. “I am responsible for all facets of a… a lesson. I...” Commie trails off here, opening his mouth to speak but seeming to think better of it. If he was going to apologize for his physicality, qui is glad he kept shut. As Ancom tugs quis skirt back on, foregoing the mystery of where quis knickers went, qui tracks Commie’s bustling movements around quis room from the bed. The familiarity of him tsking around like usual after he's just fucked quem to heaven and back makes Ancom's heart do somersaults in quis chest. It shouldn't feel this right.
“I lied earlier,” Ancom blurts abruptly. “About, um. Having bigger.”
Commie stops in his actions. His face is obscured by the dim lighting in quis rooms, but qui can hear the slight smile when he says: “Mm. I thought so.” When he continues mother-henning around quis room, Ancom is suddenly struck by the realization that Commie is stalling for time.
“You have to make dinner still, right?” Draw him in.
He turns toward quem in minor surprise, as if impressed qui even remembered. “да. I do.”
Go for the throat. “Then why are you still cleaning my room?”
Commie works his jaw, mild irritation blooming across his features before he schools it into neutrality. Yeah, quis still got the spark. “It’s mutual aid.”
“Mutual aid. Of course.”
“Yes. …Did you want me to leave?”
Uh, duh, is what the rational part of quis brain wants to say. This was a one and done thing. Get the fuck out of here, statist, before I get stupid again.
Instead, qui says:
“I’ll, uh, stay in here for awhile. But I’ll come and eat dinner.” Ancom fiddles with the drawstrings of quis hoodie. “You’re pretty good at… these kinds of lessons. We could have another one sometime.”
Commie visibly brightens.
“Glad we are on the same page. There is a pocket-copy of Dialectical and Historical Materialism on your nightstand,” he nods over at quis bedside table before walking toward the door. “I want you to have read to page fifteen by tomorrow.”
“That’s—I wasn’t talking about—“
A smug expression rests on Commie’s face. “I know what you were talking about. I’ll see you at dinner, котенок.”
The door opens and shuts. Ancom sits on the bed, baffled. The stern image of Joseph Stalin stares up at quem from quis nightstand like an evil eye. What the fuck?
Qui shoves the book on the floor.
God, fuck this. Establishment bootlicker.
*
Coda
“I don’t want to fucking hear it,” Ancom says.
“Which part? The fact that I predicted this? Or the fact that I was right about the food?”
Ancap’s lazy leer buzzes in Ancom’s ear like an annoying fly. “Can you just—look, it’s been weeks since that happened, and he’s sleeping right now, alright? Bug me about it later.”
Commie has his head cradled in Ancom’s lap within the living room, slumbering peacefully through the household noise that was Ancap trading stocks and Nazi trading slurs.
“You going to be his attack cat now? That’s not very anarchist of you. Where’s the lib-unity?” Ancap eyes the two critically.
“You’re not even a real anarchist, don’t lecture me about lib-unity,” Ancom deadpans. Ancap shrugs.
“Eh. Then say I’m just looking out for a fellow...” He gestures vaguely. “…whatever you are. The statists will never have our best interests in mind, and I know you know that.”
Ancom purses quis lips. “Yeah.” Quis heart tugs when qui looks down at Commie’s sleeping form. “I know.”
“Anyways, you wanna leave the big guy and smoke some salvia? The black market just had a Black Friday sale. I’m upselling their entire stock.”
“Jesus, you’re brutal.” For a minute, Ancom remembers Commie’s previous lectures about the inherent failures of capitalism. Qui slices the memory away. What Commie didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him, and it's been awhile since qui has taken a hit off of anything that wasn't quis bong.
Qui nods, gently shifting Commie’s head off quis lap before getting up and stretching. “Yeah, let’s go smoke. You still got any DMT left, though? Salvia gives me the spins.”
"Of course I do. You're my best customer."
*